The Secret of Salvation
by soBeautifullyObsessed
Summary: Major Jamie Stewart is a survivor-but sometimes he just needs to escape. The guilt, the pain, the despair; his bitter fall due to folly and hubris. It helps to survive if one has a sanctuary to turn to, a dream to hold onto. A vision of a day-and a woman-that might grant him the salvation he desperately craves.
1. Chapter 1

"Jamie…darling…" Her voice was light, lilting, soft, as she tried to summon him from sleep–-though he remained a silent lump anyway, snug beneath their eiderdown. He had decided he didn't care to breakfast with the family this morning, and that he didn't really give a damn that they would be disappointed once again. So long as she was not welcome at his parents' table, he would not dine in their home, nor shelter beneath their roof. As the situation stood, he had his gentlemen's club to repair to instead–-at least on those nights he didn't find his way to Fannie's flat. And Jamie had been opting more and more for the latter, in the weeks since his victorious return from France.

"Darling, please," she urged him in her way, insistent yes, but gentle, "I've laid out your uniform, and the coffee's nearly ready." Fan sat beside him on the bed–-exactly as he'd hoped she would–and bent close to brush a kiss upon his bare shoulder.

"None for me this morning, Fan," he growled, burrowing his head deeper into his pillow, and relishing the way the ends of her lush, dark hair skimmed against his skin. "Set the pot to cool, love–-I need you back in this bed at once."

"And a sinful man you are," she exclaimed, her faux cockney sounding as genuine as any guttersnipe from Whitechapel or Stepney, "And doing your all to lead me to temptation's door!"

He chuckled wickedly, recalling all their shared sins of the night before, and rolled onto his back, finally opening his eyes. "You passed that threshold some time ago, sweet Fan…" Fire flashed in her deep blue eyes, though his woman smiled knowingly, surely tallying each sin he had wrung from her since he had found her once again. Through the months of his deployment, first in France, and then in Flanders, he had held on tight to the promises she'd made him, never doubting for a moment she would give herself to him entirely once his part in the Great War was done. He had sought her out the same day he had returned to London–-even before finding his way to the Stewart family manse in Mayfair–-calling upon his lovely Fannie at the _London Hippodrome_ , where she was preparing for her part in the latest musical review. Jamie had stood boldly at the foot of the stage, interrupting her in rehearsal, and kissing her soundly before all and sundry, once she threw herself into his arms. Having faced the many unspeakable horrors of war–-and death itself-–he had felt no compunction whatsoever about claiming what had been promised him. He'd had her that very night too, and nearly every night since.

As he would have her now.

She offered no resistance as her pulled her to him, giving him that throaty moan that meant she was happy to bow to his desires, and laughing softly as he turned her onto her back. How readily she _always_ let him conquer her, let his needs and wants and lusts fill their many hours together-–and though Jamie had not told her so in words, how readily she had conquered his heart. The time was fast approaching when he _would_ tell her so; when he would scandalize his family, friends, and smart social set, and take her for his wife. If pushed to it, he would even turn his back on the family fortune, and allow himself to be snubbed by the genteel class, all for his saucy mistress from the wrong side of the Thames.

 _Wrong side of the Thames_. He always chuckled inwardly at the clever expression he had coined–-for his sweet and loving Fan was from about as far west of the Thames as any woman might be. He had thought her British that first night when she dazzled him upon the stage of the _Apollo_ –-but it was only when he'd spoken to her over dinner that next night, that he learned where she was from. Fannie Delilah Moore, born and bred in Iowa, daughter of a corn farmer and a school marm, had traveled cross the wide Atlantic to find her fortune on the London stage. His family called it ludicrous for the son of landed gentry to involve himself with an American, and 'theatrical trash' to boot. Jamie called it kismet, and intended to lose himself forever in her generous, loving arms.

He loomed above his Fannie, fully awake now, and fully aroused. _So pretty in the morning_ , he thought for the hundredth time, with his marks upon her from the night before–-her swollen lips bruised from his hungry kisses, the purplish love bites on the creamy flesh of her neck (she had begged him to stop, insisting that _no_ stage makeup would properly conceal them for Monday's performance–-and he had obliged her by leaving them elsewhere on her sacred skin). Fannie's glorious, waist-length, raven hair lay spread about her on the pillow, reminding him once more of some of their favorite sins; he smiled down at her, recalling the wantonness she reserved only for him. Ever for him.

Oh, the ecstasy she gave him when she loosed her hair upon his chest, his hips, his thighs, and then wrapped its silken thickness around his throbbing cock. It overwhelmed his senses at times–-so that even when he watched her from afar, her hair modestly braided or decorously piled atop her head as she danced across the stage, he ached to think of the intervening hours that must pass before she spoiled him with its luxury again.

He tugged away the bothersome comforter pooled around them, trapping her beneath his naked flesh. "Sweet, sweet Fan," he growled, tracing her throat with hot, wet kisses, while she ran her fingers through his hair.

"You are insatiable!" she giggled, squirming beneath him, angling her hips in preparation for his entry. He slid a hand beneath her silk dressing gown, fondling one breast while seeking to suckle on the other. Fannie yelped when he grazed his teeth on her stiffened bud, and in doing so moved him to soothe her flesh with the flat of his tongue. She arched into his mouth, moaning his name. "Jamie, darling…do all of me that way…oh pul-leassssse, my darling…" she begged unashamedly, "Please…my god…just make me your feast!"

 _That's no sooner begged than done_ , he thought, raking his hands along her willing contours, parting her gown below the waist, finding her bare but for the soft, dark curls that covered her mound. Fingers tight in his hair now, Fan urged his face to the juncture of her thighs, and he basked in her musk, parting her lips and laying his mouth upon her most delicate, sensitive spot. He had come to crave the taste of her, and she knew it too; reveled in it, telling him always that she had never allowed any lover in her past to taste her so. How potent it made him feel, to mark her as his in this way, laving his tongue upon her wetness, drinking her in. This morning he planned to make her come with his lips and his tongue alone, tasting her in her rapture, before seeking his own, buried deep inside her.

How warm she was, how very wet–-and how willing for him to have his way with her. His friends would surely tell him he was besotted, and with a creature unworthy of his noble blood. But James Thomas Killingworth Stewart IV knew things those fools could never imagine: that once such a woman, a temptress, a goddess, got into your blood, there was no turning back. He had paid a miserable price in the fields of Flanders, lived in bloodstained mud in the trenches of Belgium–-and his dear Fan was his prize for having survived it all. His soul might be tarnished from some of the things that necessity had made him do, but she judged him not for his errors, nor for the outrageous pride that eventually led him to blind folly- which had ultimately brought his comrades in arms down.

Warm she was, so warm as he loved her–-and her imagined warmth was a blessing to him now, erasing the past for a time, giving him the only comfort he would know. The comfort of a fevered dream, and of flights of fantasy, all meant to distract him from the constant gnawing pit of hunger in his stomach, the ever present thirst that left his tongue to cleave to his palate, the guilt that cut him each time he opened his eyes from threadbare sleep-as he lay shivering in the cold, damp tent he shared with three other British Calvary officers, all taken by the Germans, in the weeks following his own capture on the failed Field of Quieverchain…

 _(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

Life was dismal and chaotic for Jamie and his fellow prisoners of war those first few weeks, as golden August turned into a wet, unseasonably cool September. The Germans were uncharacteristically disorganized when it came to dealing with both the officers and the enlisted men whom they had captured. Wisely, they had immediately separated foot soldiers from the men who led them, reasoning that without the formidable brains and strict, unwavering discipline of British officers, the less educated rank and file of men would be less likely to attempt escape. But the enemy had not been prepared for the sheer number of prisoners taken-and that so early in the conflict—and thus were not adequately provisioned for even the barest needs of their captives. It wasn't unusual for the unfortunate Brits—officers and enlisted menalike—to receive just the one meagre, midday meal each day, while being forced to march in rain and fog towards Germany. Certainly, the Germans foraged for supplies while on the move, but there was rarely enough to supplement their own needs, let alone to satisfy the hunger and thirst of the men in their charge. Jamie was pretty sure that he and his fellow officers were provided a cut above what little the common soldiers received—and was grateful for that, at least.

Having spent time at resorts on the Baltic during two of his summer holidays from university, Jaime had a fair grasp of the German tongue—but he kept that fact to himself, making a point of seeking out English speaking officers when the need to communicate arose. Believing him to be ignorant of their language, a share of German officers and their subordinates spoke freely in his presence, so that he was able to glean information that might be of future use to him. In this way, Jamie was also able to learn how the war was going, and he realized before too long that the hopes that he (and like-minded military experts back in London) had held were badly miscalculated. He found that realization humbling, frightening—and devastating, when he remembered his egoistic confidence as he led his men to disaster and death. He knew he was extremely lucky to have survived, though the inescapable guilt of his folly and hubris had him wishing sometimes for a share of ignorant bliss.

Jamie managed as best he could, to discover the fates of his closest friends from his defeated cadre, through whispered conversations on the sly whenever he encountered a familiar face in line for the latrine, or as he sat resting on the ground roadside, waiting for the distribution of what little water was allotted him. He had seen with his own eyes that Charlie Lively had been injured, though not seriously, and had known that the lieutenant had been taken from the field by ambulance, as were at least a half dozen others that Jamie had considered friends. Those he had no word of worried his heart—especially regarding his mate, Jim Nicholls, with whom he'd served the longest. With each name confirmed as captured, each name confirmed as fallen, his guilt for the imprudence of that disastrous charge weighed upon him heavily.

Two weeks or so into this forced march, Jamie fell ill, likely due to a combination of unrelenting damp, exhaustion, and malnourishment. His throat felt like he was swallowing broken glass at the height of his illness, and he ran a nearly constant fever—but given the situation, there was nothing to be done for it; he would simply have to carry on, tight-lipped and uncomplaining in the tradition of his people. Eventually, though, one of the more sympathetic German officers noticed his plight, and offered him a small tin cup half-filled with whiskey, as Jamie and the other prisoners prepared to bed down for the night in an abandoned barn in near the French-Belgian border. Jamie took it gratefully, and though it wasn't proper medicine, on his empty stomach it warmed him enough to allow him to slip into an unbroken sleep. As he gradually faded into blessed unconsciousness, his mind began to untether from his harsh reality, effortlessly calling forth recent sunny days in the company of good friends. Evenings spent indulging in harmless vices while on leave in London. Warm memories of he and his mates swaggering about the city as though they owned the night; only the best food and drink for them, only the prettiest women to flirt with—and if lucky, to dandle such congenial lasses upon their laps for a time. He and Jim and Charlie, with Padraic O'Brien and Oliver Kent, looking smart in their uniforms (ever a magnet for the ladies), all of them flush with the privilege of their class, and with the unwavering certainty that their destinies could only ever be golden.

The whiskey warmed his blood as he lay on a bed of stale straw covered in a threadbare blanket, anesthetizing not only his physical discomfort, but also the shame and grief that bedeviled his soul when silence filled the night. He could almost hear the laughter of his friends, taste the smart sting of the top-shelf bourbon on his tongue. An evening that had been warm, and full of potential, and at some point Nicholls had suggested that take in a show. As the others readily agreed, Jamie—who would've preferred other diversions—went along, rather than be left to find amusement on his own.

They ended up at a musical revue playing at the _Apollo_ , fifteen minutes past curtain, but a little extra cash bought them prime seats in a state box, just a few feet away and to the left of the stage. The review was pleasant enough, with a plethora of charming showgirls dancing about, trilling sweetly—though there seemed nothing much to distinguish them one from the other. Slightly bored, Jamie had been counting down the minutes until the interval, planning to suggest they move on to his club and search out a fine game of poker. The stage lights had been dimmed, to hide the stagehands moving set pieces about, and then only a spotlight came up, with a single figure caught in its beam. A dark-haired beauty, her long, thick braid cast across her shoulder, a dress of pale gold draped about her figure as though she was a Grecian goddess; fair skin with cheeks pinked naturally, perhaps enhanced with stage makeup. Long, dark lashes that framed demurely downcast eyes, as the first strains of the violins began. Dark pink lips, soon made all the sweeter for the voice that arose from them. The entire house was silent and waiting—and with her first notes, Jamie was entranced.

The piece sounded ancient, sorrowful, longing, and based upon the haunting melody and archaic lyrics, he found himself wondering if it was indeed some old, Celtic love song. The spotlight tracked her as she swayed to the music, as she sang beseechingly of love, loss, and desperation. Her voice rose in a clear contralto, with none of those eardrum piercing notes one might hear with a pure, self-aggrandizing soprano-and when she fell into the lower register of her vocal range, coupled with the evocative words and tune-it was enough to make a man wonder...to make _him_ wonder...how it would be to hear that voice speaking forbidden desires in the soft, dark night. She cast her eyes upon those in the front rows held rapt by her musical spell; it seemed she held each man she gazed upon in thrall, before shifting her glance unto another. Ethereal and sorrowing she seemed, lost in nearly unendurable longing. Jamie thought her voice lovelier than any he'd heard in ages. And then she raised her eyes to his.

He was close enough to see their deep blue fringed by soft, dark lashes, close enough to be certain that her eyes had noted him, had picked him out especially, and he flattered himself enough to think she was actually singing to him. His stomach seemed to plummet to his feet as he felt a strange spark of recognition, and for a single breath he could have sworn her eyes widened as though she recognized him as well. She held his gaze for several lyrical lines, and when she turned away, to face the state box opposite their own, he had the ridiculous urge to call her back; to implore her to sing the remainder of her song to him alone. And then she was done, her final notes fading into silence, even as she sank into a deep curtsy to the crowd, while the applause grew, and the theatre filled with shouts of encore from at least a dozen men. _Surely an enchantress_ , he murmured under his breath, dazed as the spotlight closed around her, stunned at his own very uncharacteristic poetry of thought, as the houselights came up in full.

Jamie remained seated a moment, while his companions began to file out of the state box on their way to stretch their legs and grab a quick cigarette. Jim clapped him on the shoulder, drawing him out of his reverie, "Coming with, Jamie?"

Roused from his stupor, he shook his head curtly, and cleared his throat, "Uh…of course…I'll…I'll be out in just a minute."

Nicholls withdrew his hand, and left with the others, while Jamie pulled the folded programme from his pocket, running down the list of musical numbers to discover the name of the songstress who had bewitched him so. _Fannie_ , he mouthed, _Fannie Moore_. He liked the feel of her name immediately, enjoying the play of it on his tongue. Suddenly, his desire to be anywhere but there had dissipated, replaced with a pleasant anticipation of what the second act might bring.

He joined the others shortly for a smoke, and they shared around Padraic's pocket flask of whiskey (emptying it all too soon), but he did not mention his unexpected fascination with Miss Moore—not only because he thought it rather shocking and unseemly of himself, but also because he knew that they would surely take the mickey out of him if they knew.

Jamie kept his eyes riveted to the stage for the remainder of the show, searching for his pretty songbird trouping among the lesser beauties—disappointed when she did not appear, eagerly drinking her in when she did. He could not honestly judge if she shone brighter than the other chorus girls because of her beauty and talent—or if it was his sudden, wholehearted attraction to her that elevated her every moment on the stage, far, far above the rest. Jamie only knew for certain that he'd be satisfied to have Miss Fannie Moore take the stage all for herself, and leave the others to fritter their time away in the wings.

They left the theatre afterwards and grabbed a late supper at a restaurant (which Jamie would be hard pressed to even name, as his mind had lingered elsewhere), and then ended their night at _The Duke of York_ , a pub on Charring Cross Road, favored by countless cavalrymen since the Second Boer War. Jamie was quick to lay down his brass for the first round, but remained unusually silent as his friends laughed and drank the hours away until last call. If any of his boys had noticed his preoccupation, they said not a word.

Back in the comfort of his family home, nightcap in hand, he sat in the bedroom of his youth (seldom used since his boarding school days) and found his mind returning again and again to that single, striking moment...to the deep blue of her eyes...and to that strange but not unpleasant sense of recognition he had felt when those soft, lovely eyes met his own. It was the damnedest feeling, and when he finally laid down and pulled the comforter over himself, it seemed to be keeping him from sleep.

 _Only one way to deal with this_ , he decided, man of action that he was; exasperated and restless, Jamie rose from his bed, and headed to the secretary tucked beneath the eave that overlooked the street. Grumbling over lost sleep, he rummaged through the drawers for suitable paper and a fountain pen, carefully composing his thoughts.

 _Dear Miss Moore,_

 _You must pardon my presumption in writing to you, though we are not acquainted-but I find myself dwelling, with an involuntary insistence, upon your performance of the evening past. More specifically, upon your extraordinary solo performance. It seems to have struck a chord within me that continues to resound even now, and well past what I deem as reasonable._

 _I thought perhaps-if you would be amenable-we might meet for a late dinner this evening, so that I might compliment you in person._ The Savoy _offers the finest chateaubriand in London, which I shall order ahead to ensure it will be ready upon your arrival-say 10:30, as your final curtain call appears to fall shortly before 10pm. Simply ask for my table; I will await you there, with the highest hopes you will not disappoint me. Until that time, let me assure you that I hold you in my most profound esteem-and that you have quite overthrown my typical behavior in regards to your fair sex._

 _I remain your humble servant,_

 _Major James Stewart_

 _Fifth Cavalry, Buckingham_

He read the letter through twice, soon satisfied that it had struck the proper tone. Come the day, he would see it delivered to the _Apollo_ , along with a generous bouquet of roses as proof of his sincerity. His plan in place, Jamie found sleep easily—speculating as he fell, what flavor he might find, were he lucky enough to sample the beguiling lady's lips.

He spent the afternoon seeing to the necessary arrangements; having the flowers and his missive sent along to the theatre, reserving a secluded table at the restaurant, ensuring that all the details of their meal were set. At no point had he even considered that the lady might find him far too forward to acquiesce to his request, certain in his bones that he was _meant_ to gaze into her captivating blue eyes by candlelight, and to hear her speak his name in soft flirtation. With the evening, Jamie had to beg off when Charlie and Jim had come to call upon him; in so many words—without directly lying—he had intimated that his parents required his presence for the night in regard to some pressing family business. They left disappointed, but with no clue as to his true intent for the evening.

Jamie had toyed with the idea of wearing his parade blues, as further insurance to impress the young lady, but in the end he settled for his everyday dress uniform instead. And although he had not planned on it, he found himself drawn back to the _Apollo,_ to purchase a ticket on the mezzanine, six rows from the stage, to sit in the anonymous darkness—curious to see if he might feel the same enchantment with the charming Fannie Moore, upon a second viewing.

And sure enough, he did. He realized—to a mix of consternation, delight, and heavenly anticipation—that he was very much under the lady's spell **…**

* * *

For the first time since he had left England, Jamie had been sleeping soundly enough that it took one of the other captured officers to shake him awake. How reluctantly he came to, trying to remain in a dream that was the dearest comfort he could have imagined—and though he felt well rested, and his fever had finally broken, he immediately craved a return to that same ephemeral bliss. He groaned, remembering himself and his pitiful situation, and then stretched and sat up, running a hand through his mussed hair and then scratching the infernal itch of the involuntary growth of whiskers on his cheeks and chin. _Good god, I miss her! Of all the things I've ever missed, I'm missing her the most._ He shut his eyes, conjuring a vision of his sweet Fan to stand against the misery of his captivity, clinging for just that little while longer to the memories his dream had stirred.

She had not disappointed him that mid-June night. _Barely three months past_ , he reminded himself, recalling how he had risen from his seat the moment he had spotted the maître d' escorting her to their table. Fannie had worn a slight, bemused smile as she drew near, her eyes wide in her appraisal of him. Jamie answered by straightening into his most formal military stance, and assuming his full height, along with the air of authority and confidence that made him a formidable commander of men.

He was hyper aware as the seconds played out, as she moved with a grace already familiar to him. Fannie's velvety, dark hair had been redressed into a loose French braid, ornamented with a pair of rhinestone combs that glittered when they caught the light—though the light of her eyes, rich with honest mirth, was far more compelling. She was dark sapphire silk, and midnight blue satin, and wore a matching velvet stole fringed in cream, modestly covering her shoulders—though somehow, Jamie was certain she would let slide that stole for him, as their evening together progressed. Fannie Moore was clearly no mere dance hall girl; she was well aware of her beauty, and would not commit fawning modesty in order to fit in with society's ideal of femininity. He felt it impossible _not_ to want her for his own.

The maître d' went before her, pulling out her chair, though she declined to sit just yet, murmuring her thanks, and dismissing him with a full, pretty smile—before turning that smile upon Jamie. "Major Stewart," she said, inclining her head softly, and holding out a satin-gloved hand to him.

"Miss Moore," he acknowledged, bowing his head just a little, and then raised her offered hand enough to brush his lips against her knuckles. He did not release her hand just yet, and took a step closer. "Thank you for joining me this evening."

Fannie raised her chin, sizing him up, and answered cheekily, "Please know, Major Stewart, that I do not normally make a habit of accepting dinner invitations from strange men—no matter how charmingly they are delivered." Her lips were soft with a pert smile.

He was taken aback for a breath or two, as her accent revealed her to be an American—thus whetting his interest in her even more. Making her even more of a fascinating mystery to be unraveled. Jamie quirked her a half smile and a single arched brow, "Then I must have been born beneath a lucky star, for here you are nonetheless." Her hand still rested lightly upon his, so that he dared running his thumb along the backs of her fingers.

"Yes," she sighed, glancing down at their joined hands, "I suppose some rules are meant to be broken. On occasion." Fannie met his eyes again, gracing him with a slight but satisfied smile, "In this case I was urged to do so …" Jamie narrowed his eyes in query, so that she gave an easy explanation, "Let us just say that the curiosity of my friends in the cast—in your regard—begged to be satisfied…and I was _loathe_ to disappoint them." She gave a small shrug, and Jamie marveled that she appeared both innocent _and_ coy at the same time.

"Of course," he murmured, moving closer, liking even the tilt of her head as she looked up at him, "Then I sincerely hope—for their sake, as well as our own—that I can give you enough reason to be satisfied."

Her gaze was bold as she nodded softly, and she drew a tremulous sigh—spurring him to wonder how much of the moment was the artifice of an actress, and how much it might be the true nature of the woman herself. Either way, he was determined to learn the answer.

Not allowing him to dwell in that moment, Fannie lowered her lashes, averting her eyes to the table beside them, reminding him that they were there to dine. Jamie released her hand, and moved past her, allowing her to sit before pushing her chair into the table. As he sat himself, the wine steward moved in quickly, and as arranged for, set a brass wine stand beside their table, uncorked the bottle and poured a small amount of the deep red liquid into a goblet, presenting it for Jaime's approval. Jamie savored the wine for a few moments, and then nodded to the sommelier, who then filled both glasses before retiring from their table.

Jamie raised his glass, and Fannie followed suit. "A toast, then, Miss Moore—shall we say…to the satisfaction of friends?"

She laughed in appreciation, sweetly, naturally, and quite winningly, so that Jamie vowed to find whatever opportunity he could to draw her laughter forth again. "Yes, Major Stewart…of friends indeed…and perhaps…" Her eyes had caught the candlelight exactly as he had been imagining, and her voice was rife with sublime, unspoken promises, "Perhaps that of new acquaintances as well." She tapped her crystal glass against his own, and brought it to her pretty lips—and he found himself heartily wishing to taste the wine upon them, as well as her own flavor, against his own…

Lost in his memories, Jamie had moved about his morning tasks, dressing, then washing his face in the cold water in the trough outside the barn, and then rolling his blankets and makeshift pillow (fashioned from a musty flour sack, and filled with new hay whenever he had the opportunity), securing it with the leather strap that had once served to hold his sidearm in place. He accepted the chunk of stale bread provided him, and an unexpected cup of coffee, before falling into his place in line for the continued trek to whatever prison camp lay at the end of their interminable march. And he kept good time, feeling better than he had in days thanks to a full night's sleep, and the added jolt of caffeine—for his mind was where his heart rested, at least for this day…and even the intermittent drizzle on the forced march could not dull or dampen the quiet warmth inside his chest, kindled by the memories of that dinner—and the delicious hours in the days and nights that had followed **…**


	3. Chapter 3

Some nights, despite the exhaustion of the day's march, sleep eluded Jamie, as it did for many of his companions at various times. And like them, he would toss and turn, feeling the passage of time, longing for oblivious slumber but unable to achieve it. He usually spent an hour or so that way, until he recalled that on such previous nights, setting aside the irritation that his body would not obey his wishes, and just laying there and breathing slowly and deeply, could at least put him in a state between complete awareness and actual sleep. Morning would come, and though he couldn't be certain if he had actually slept, he felt vaguely rested anyway.

Such nights, as the breathing finally relaxed him (and he asked himself again, why it had take him even that hour to settle on this approach), he found himself in Fannie's company once more. This night, he was back at The Savoy, in the midst of their first dinner together.

Fannie had proven to be a bright, engaging conversationalist, effortlessly setting Jamie at ease, and drawing from him many details of his life. His family history, education, interests-even his military training and hopes for advancement-seemed topics of genuine fascination to her, though in turn she revealed relatively little about her own past. She accepted his compliments graciously, and freely answered his curiousity about the about the theatrical life, wryly calling herself a vagabond who had finally found her true home upon the stage.

Although Jamie had found himself wishing to know more, wanting to learn how she had ended up in London, and desiring to discover where she came from and who her people were (beyond her brief disclosure that she was the only daughter of an Iowan corn farmer and a new England born school marm), he did not press her too hard for more. Beneath the glamour she projected, and the smooth way she made the conversation all about him, he sensed quiet secrets held close and a soft heart protected by well-practiced insouciance. The soulfulness of her song the night before had captured his attention-and now he had an inkling it had been truthfully sourced in some heartbreak of her own.

Soon enough, the prettiest blush colored her cheeks as the wine warmed her, and as she flattered his attempts to be witty with sincere, easy laughter, leaning nearer to him across the table-all the while appearing to be unaware of her striking effect upon him. The drink had not, could not, dull her glamour in the least; instead, it had transmuted it somehow, to something that felt more approachable to a fallible, mortal man. He could barely take his eyes off of Fannie, her slightest movements holding him fascinated. Lifting his goblet to his lips, he paused-his desire to drink forgotten as he watched, silent and mesmerized, when she shrugged free of her velvet stole, revealing the smooth, creamy flesh of her shoulders and decolletage, featuring a small, strawberry colored mole upon the swell of her left breast. Gentleman he had been raised, but in that moment all he could think was what it would be like to blaze a trail of kisses from her shoulder down, so to taste that small mark for himself. No woman of his own class, no pert or friendly lass encountered in a raucous tavern anywhere, had so immediately set his blood to burn for just the smallest taste.

Fannie showed a dainty appetite-but then, Jamie had mused, most women did upon initial acquaintance, wishing to enhance their femininity-though she did not refrain, as they lingered over their meal, from having him refill her glass a time or two. When the waiter cleared away their dinner plates, Jamie felt as they had only just begun, even as the clock advanced to midnight. While she visited the ladies toilet, he ordered dessert-an airy white cake with summer berries and clotted cream, generous enough for two-and settled the bill. She returned to the table refreshed, and was genuinely appreciative of his thoughtfulness, though she only allowed herself a few bites of the sweet confection, explaining confidentially that her costumes could not bear the strain of even an extra pound. "Come now, Miss Moore," he had advised her, "If I may be so bold to say, such a small indulgence could surely not affect so svelte a figure as yours."

She had smiled coyly, and reached across the table to pat her hand, "You are too kind, Major Stewart...but in this case I assure you that past experience has taught me otherwise."

Fannie had left her fingers resting on his own, drawing his eyes to that first contact of flesh on flesh, and he followed by laying his other hand atop hers, "I defer to your wisdom, then...for now." He traced one fingertip sinuously against her skin, "And may I dare ask you to address me by my given name?"

He had looked to her again at her quick intake of breath, reading a mix of surprise and satisfaction in her deep blue eyes. "James, is it?"

"Yes, please...or if you prefer, Jamie." She raised one brow, so that he rushed to add, "It's, uh...it's what my friends call me..."

She hummed softly, perhaps understanding the power she held over him, if only for that moment. Fannie's voice went low and intimate, and though she must have known the answer, she asked anyway, "Are we to be friends, then...Jamie?"

He had smiled and nodded, leaning in as close as the lit candles would allow, unable to keep a hungry growl from tinging his voice, "That is my most fervent wish, Miss Moore-if you would have it so."

Her eyes had lingered on his, seeking his measure, mayhap his truth. "Indeed, I would, Jamie...dear," she had sighed, "Then it would be best you call me Fannie...don't you think?"

Jamie could only nod again, moved enough by that small advance to bring her hand to his lips and give her the barest kiss upon her fingertips.

After that, she had quite naturally slipped her hand into the crook of his arm as he escorted her to the hansom cab that waited for them curbside. Jamie had dared to think she was perhaps thinking what could not be spoken...what he was wishing himself...that their evening needn't end so soon. In keeping with that wish, he directed the driver to take them along the perimeter of Hyde Park, turning to the lady and giving explanation, "If you don't mind, of course, Fannie." He bit his lip as he waited on her reply.

"Well then," she had practically purred, "As it is the loveliest evening I've seen since last summer...and as I did promise my friends the satisfaction of a full report, I think a trip around the green must be in order." With that, Jamie had rested his free hand on her own, where it lay just past the crook of his elbow. They had both settled back against the leather seat, content in each others company, quietly conversing and enjoying the fresh night air-though he remained quite conscious of the press of her thigh against his, knowing it was too soon to ask for any greater liberty.

He was a bit shocked to discover that Fannie resided in one of the poorer sections of East London, though it would have been rude to say so. It certainly did not fit with her glamour, and surely the dress and jewels she wore cost well more than a month's rent for even an above average flat; this would be a puzzle whose answer came further along in their relationship. For now, he made no mention, debarking from the cab first, to hand her gently down to the pavement. He quietly asked the driver to wait, indicating as best he could that at best it might be longer than a few minutes. That was his hope, anyway.

They stood before the door to the modest, four-story brick building, and Jamie was more than ready to see Fannie inside, even asking permission to do so. She had lowered her gaze at that, squeezing his hands lightly between them, then answering him with a clear note of regret in her voice. "Alas, Major Stewart," she said as she raised her eyes back to his, "I am afraid that might present an unintended, but irresistible invitation to misbehavior." How soft she had looked, the light of the stars no where near as lovely as that in her eyes, bright with an unspoken longing that matched his own.

Jamie covered his heart with her hand, a little wounded at her return to his formal name, and breathless as she deferred to him; as she relied upon him to make the best choice for the both of them. "It's Jaime, my dear...always Jamie now, don't you agree?" Fannie had smiled and nodded softly, and he felt he should offer her further assurance of his strong regard. "Fannie...sweet Fan...I swear to you my motives are pure-even if my thoughts are not quite so."

She whispered, nearly to herself, "Are you such a good man?" asking as though that quality was rare in other men she had known. She raised her chin gamely, "For tonight at least, Jamie, we should observe some decorum..."

"Tonight alone?," he'd chuckled, aching already from his impending departure, "Then tell me please, sweet Fan, that I may see you again."

"Name the time and the place, Jamie dear, and I..." she lowered her lashes, becoming breathtakingly demure, "...I am yours..." And though she could not yet allow him the familiarity of a goodnight kiss, Jamie had kissed both of her hands before she slipped inside her building, leaving him on the curb to count the hours until another late dinner came around for them once more.

* * *

Days bled into nights bled into days again as the Germans marched their prisoners across the Flemish farmland, their goal to deliver them to permanent camps once they crossed the German border. The sturdy footwear of the British soldiers protected them well from the elements—for the time being—but most of the captured men suffered severely blistered feet after the first several days of the relentless trek; eventually, those blisters calloused over, and aching leg muscles hardened and acclimated to the daily physical demands of that routine.

Jamie had tightened his belt—as had his brethren—reduced as they were to paltry rations; their ranks had grown steadily, even as blustery October lurked around the corner, and there remained far less to go around. He felt himself grow leaner by the day, but there was no use in lamenting it, so that he bore his burdens in a sort of grim comradery with his fellow officers. They all did their best to keep each other's spirits from flagging. Sharing talk of home, of schooldays long past and the high jinks of youth, of family and sweethearts left behind, helped the men while away the miserable hours—though Jamie kept his most precious memories—kept his dear Fan, and all that she meant to him—quietly close at heart.

In the inevitable silences, Jamie continued to send his mind elsewhere, whenever he was able—not only to escape the discomfort and drudgery of his new life, nor only because he missed his woman with an ache that made his hunger and thirst pale in comparison—but to suppress the guilt that festered deep inside, for his cockiness, short-sightedness, and utter hubris as he'd led his regiment to disaster and death. Even his bones could recount how hard his cavalry had ridden down the enemy that morning, furiously plowing through their camp, slashing through the hapless Germans without hesitation, confident that their swift and remorseless charge was necessary to help insure a speedy, victorious resolution to the war. Along with most of the British forces, Jamie had been certain that the invading army would soon be sent in retreat across the Rhine, and he would be home in time to celebrate Christmas with his family. When the fire of the Gatling guns had suddenly erupted, time had seemed to stop as he sat his saddle in disbelief; the cold hand of terror—not for his own sake, but for his men and their mounts—raked down his spine, as he realized that their unchecked momentum had become their doom. There could be no reeling about and retreating—not for the majority of riders, anyway—and halting their advance so close to the tree line concealing the deadly surprise, was impossible.

Jamie had been painfully aware of the fall of the riders around him, waiting for the bullets to find him and cut short his life as well—astonished as Topthorn had carried him forward into the wood, leaping for their lives over the entrenched gunners. Noble Topthorn, who—despite the fright surely coursing through him—had obeyed his master's directions unerringly, as Jamie navigated them through a wood as thick with enemy soldiers as with trees. Topthorn, whom Jamie's gut insisted was the chiefest reason he had survived the battle at all—and who had been seized from him at his capture, likely pressed into service to some German officer, if not put down as useless to the Germans needs. That very personal loss was only an echo of the pain he felt when he reckoned his culpability for the deaths of his men.

Guilt was his constant, silent companion on the road, as much as were the men who marched alongside him. The silences in the night, as Jamie waited for sleep to take him, often left the guilt to bloom mercilessly, at times even following him into his dreams, turning dreams to bitter nightmares. A good part of him believed he deserved such punishment—but his surest escape was allowing his memories of Fannie to overcome him. And fashioning sweet fantasies of what their life together would be like, if he was ever able to return home.

* * *

The first dark clouds appeared on the horizon around 10am, roiling in the distance, and moving steadily east across their path, as the column moved north. No doubt, they were marching straight for it—but as it was the only road they could travel, storm buffeted they would have to be. By noon, the clouds were directly overhead, splattering the Brits and the Huns alike with cold, fat raindrops, as the wind began to whip about them with a fury that did not portend well for the afternoon and evening ahead. Yet still they walked on. Within the hour, it was clear that the storm was far too much for any reasonable chance of progress to hold true, the wind and rain driving the men so fiercely that even the hardiest among the Germans conceded that they must find shelter for the duration of the deluge. The lieutenant colonel in command ordered that they seek refuge in the next Flemish village they came upon.

Those prisoners without rain gear were thoroughly soaked to the skin by the time they found shelter in a deserted hamlet. At least half of the little cottages bore severe damage, some become just charred shells of the homes they had once been. If anyone remained behind the doors and shuttered windows of those few unscathed cottages, they dared not show themselves for fear of the invaders.

The German officers set themselves up nicely in the scorched building that appeared to serve as a boarding house and tavern, the only two-story edifice in town that remained mostly intact. A small portion of the roof had caved in, but both chimneys had survived the bombing, and Jamie imagined they'd be smoking soon with fires stoked against the cold and damp. Those soldiers not assigned guard duty were allowed to find their own shelter throughout the village, with strict orders to do no harm to any civilians they encountered, unless in self-defense.

The prisoners were housed in a bombed out church with a toppled steeple, several shattered windows, and a collapsed section of roof above the nave. Still, it was refuge enough from the storm, and the opening in the roof allowed the guards and prisoners to work together in keeping a few small fires goings just outside the perimeter of exposed space, feeding them with the driest sections of pews that they could find.

Jamie found himself a quiet corner, draped his wet clothes across a broken bench, and wrapped himself up in his damp blankets. The storm's onslaught had coincided with a darkening of his spirits, and he wanted to escape into dull sleep. Though he tried to focus his thoughts on his warmest memories of Fan, it was his darker memories that colored his sleep.

* * *

Morning mist still covered the green as Jamie waited upon Jim Nicholls and Charlie Lively. They had a friendly wager going—a full evening of drinks at The Duke of York, courtesy of the chap who came in last…though the bet was unnecessary, as far as Jamie was concerned, for it was a point of pride that he had come here to prove. Topthorn stood ready for the challenge; Jamie could feel his mount straining to be set loose, though the horse readily complied with every flick and twitch of the reins keeping him in place.

Jamie's friends slipped quietly to his side from the anonymity of the mist, the heavy breath of their mounts alerting him to their presence. Flanking him on either side, they all exchanged good mornings, waiting for their cue to begin. The sudden, violent popping of repeated gunfire broke around them, and with the fog dampening the sound, it was impossible to tell from which direction it came. But it was signal enough to set the horses running, running for their lives, desperate to reach safety, and unheedful of their riders struggling to keep them under control. The blue, satin-sheathed hoop-the object of their aborted race-and the quintain it sat upon, was obscured by the mist, and Jamie had lost all sense of direction. He finally managed to rein in Topthorn, halting somewhere in the middle of the field, and straining his ears for the slightest sound that might indicate where his mates had ended up.

"Captain Nicholls," he called out, "Lieutenant Lively…gentlemen, please—make yourselves known!" Jamie cursed in frustration, his apprehension at their silence growing keener by the second, "By God and your mothers' good names, answer me!" He pulled on the reins, urging Topthorn to dance a circle in place as he shouted, "Jim…Charlie…what the hell is going on?"

A barrage of gunfire answered him, and then a second sound followed hard upon it, chilling Jamie to the marrow. It was Jim Nicholls howling in mortal agony, and then crying out for Jamie's help, before his voice died out.

"Keep speaking, Jim, so I can find you," Jamie implored, though part of him already knew his friend had fallen forever silent.

More gunfire filled the air; a horse screamed somewhere to his left, and he heard an ominous thud, which could only mean that horse, rider, or possibly both, had fallen. Jamie's suspicion was confirmed when Charlie's pain-filled moan reached him from out of the thickening haze.

Jamie knew he should dismount, should search for his friends on foot, yet he felt frozen in his saddle. Topthorn was quivering beneath him, fighting his instinct to bolt by the force of Jamie's will alone. When a single shot, too close at hand, broke the silence, it proved too much for the horse; he reared, screaming out his fear, and spilled Jamie on the ground before galloping into the fog.

Shocked more than frightened, Jamie sat up. Topthorn had never thrown him before, not in nearly five years, and now he had disappeared into a cruel sea of mist. Jamie felt more alone than he had in his whole life, cut off from all warmth, friends, purpose. He was useless to help his friends who lay somewhere beyond his sight, beyond his reach, dying if not already dead. When another lone shot reverberated around him, he heard Topthorn screech and knew his treasured stead had fallen for good as well.

He lay back on the ground, unable to fear what came next, and filled with remorse for having brought his friends to this cruel field, and to such a bitter, futile end. Jamie knew he should rouse himself, but he could not muster the will to do so. "Let them take me," he thought, "It's no less than what I deserve." The damp of the fog was growing heavier around him, soaking through the wool of his uniform, and he began to shiver uncontrollably; the damp was thick in his mouth and in his nostrils, and his last thought as darkness overtook him was that he was drowning on dry land. And that he might as well go under, for that too, was no less than he deserved…

Jamie awoke, gasping for air, shaking nearly as violently in the flesh as he had been in his nightmare. But consciousness offered no relief from the anguish in his heart, for there was no escape from the brutal truth of his dream. Awake or asleep, it amounted to the same. He would find no absolution for his heedless mistakes—nor could he even begin to forgive himself. What salvation could be had for the man who cost the lives of so many who had trusted him? What sanctuary remained for a man who now despised himself, and with such good reason?

The answer came—as such answers often do—as a whisper in the back of his mind, quiet but insistent. The love of a good woman, of course. In her faith and her forgiveness, granted unconditionally from the depths of a kind and loving heart. If he could survive the physical travails, and keep himself healthy and sane, Jamie had to believe that he would find exactly what he needed most in Fannie's deep blue eyes, in her easy, generous smiles, and in her gentle, loving arms. She would be the light that saw him through whatever darkness lay ahead, and the salvation he desperately needed to make a life worth living, once he left the horrors of this war behind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** _I've been working on this chapter (and one for my other WIP, "Of Magic, Miracles, and Moonlight) for what feels like forever (nearly two months, methinks!). Real life presented obstacles in the form of exhaustion (Christmas in the retail world), technology challenges (don't even get me started) and illness. I'm thrilled and excited to finally have something to share today! However...it's coming in around 16 pages, and I worry I'm straining my Kind Readers' patience with such a long, ultimately self-indulgent chapter; but only YOU can be the judge of that._

 _However (again) I decided to go forward despite the length for two reasons. First, so few people are actually following this story, that I dare to think those that are will bear with me and find the delight I intended for Jamie Fannie in every paragraph of this chapter. And second, I have pleased myself, I admit unabashedly-again, as so few people have an interest in this tale after all. So onward to the words we go, shall we? As ever, thank you for reading...and please don't hesitate to let me know what you think! xx_

* * *

Fannie woke with a start, an hour or so before dawn. She'd been dreaming that same dream again, though some of the details had changed. She had been waltzing with Jamie, trusting in his lead, trusting in him entirely, as she always did now. Her charismatic, brilliant, beautiful Jamie; her stalwart soldier, her lover too far from her arms. In dreams she danced with him—on her luckiest nights-though in the waking world they hadn't yet had that chance.

They hadn't really had the chance for very much at all, their time together having been comprised of only seven nights in total, a few summer afternoons, plus all the daylight hours of those last two days he'd been in London. Her friends insisted that it wasn't nearly enough time for her to believe they had a future together-if he even survived the war—but they didn't know her Jamie. There was no _if_ when it came to Jamie; there was only _when_ he would return from those foreign fields, only the _when_ , when he would call upon her again at last, a triumphant hero-to dazzle her with his charmingly crooked smile, his full-throated laugh, and the way he spoke her name that made her want to melt into whatever he desired of her. He would conquer the Germans as handily as he had conquered her, and so return and fulfill the promises he had made to her. And redeem those she had made to him. Fannie had staked her heart upon it—after years of holding it aloof-and her faith in him was resolute.

Contrary to her usual wisdom, Fannie had begun to fall for Jamie Stewart from her very first hour in his company. Intrigued by the eloquence and confidence of his dinner invitation, flattered by his shameless declaration of infatuation, she had chanced meeting him—believing that the vow she'd undertaken after New York City would be enough to protect her (as it had been for years) from hazarding her heart. She had been a green young thing in New York, naïve in the ways of men, and idealistic about romantic love, and thus had learned the hardest lessons of her life: trust not the honeyed promises of men; gird yourself well against the flattery and lies they tell to win their way into your bed. After Nathaniel had destroyed her little world and left her bereft of honor and innocence, Fannie had sworn to _never_ allow a man to get the better of her in a love affair; to _never_ let her heart overrule good common sense…and to always, _always_ be the one to do the leaving, rather than the one that's left behind. How could she have anticipated that _this_ extraordinary stranger would effortlessly lay waste to all those years of safeguarding her heart?

Or of how quickly and spectacularly Jamie Stewart had made her break the rules she had set for herself—from nearly the first moment she had laid eyes upon him in _The Savoy_ ; how tall and straight he had stood in his officer's uniform, his shoulders broad, his posture impossibly perfect, like a golden arrow notched and ready to fly straight, unwaveringly to its mark. Then there was the pale blue of his eyes, catching glints of the candlelight, watching her with an unlikely mix of cool calm and banked heat; 'twas that heat that had sent the first shivers of longing down her spine, and the first warning that she might have met her Waterloo at last. Her dearest Jamie's eyes—which had haunted her sleep in the nights that had followed their initial meeting, and long after his leave had ended and he'd departed for his base in Surrey-were a pale, crystalline blue, but with changes in the light they became a deeper, more compelling blue, and which she was later to learn could also hold a kaleidoscope of color, all too easy to lose herself within. The power of his forthright gaze, and the unabashed hunger that it held, were such that soon Fannie realized that she was likely to allow him to lead her… _anywhere_.

In spite of her steadfast rules, her then unknown cavalier had proven too handsome (in equal measure to his other sterling qualities) for her to disregard upon that first meeting. A noble brow that sat well with his obvious intellect, and the finest of smile lines beside his remarkable eyes; the planes and angles of his face like some gorgeous Renaissance sculpture, with full, sensuous lips that would be the envy of most of the chorus girls she knew, and which left her pondering how they might feel in the kissing, and how they might spoil her skin were he to trace them upon her secret places. And though Fannie normally preferred her men clean-shaven, that rule fell by the wayside as well, without even a bit of internal debate—the color of his mustache a shade darker than his auburn hair, and combined with his complexion and bone structure, a perfect and fitting touch of masculinity.

And so upon these autumn days and nights, Jamie Stewart lived both in her heart and in her most blessed dreams. It seemed to her now as destiny—or at least a destiny that had come of _his_ determination. Fannie hadn't stood a chance as he had pursued her during June's midsummer heat, squiring her to fine luncheons and decadent late night dinners, strolling her through quaint city parks and lush arboretums, escorting her to the National Gallery and the Victoria & Albert Museum, generous in spoiling her with posh sights and gastronomic delights, and all while being remarkably conversant on a wide variety of topics—and never, _never_ asking for more than she might willingly give. Her company, her smiles, her laughter. Bestowing modest kisses upon her to begin with, which grew to a passion she had rarely surrendered to in the years since she had arrived in London.

At each evening's end, he would bid her goodnight outside the door of her Hackney flat, and Fannie would allow him increasing liberty in touching her—knowing she was crossing the line of propriety, but craving the worship of his strong hands—all the while imagining how it would be to lay beneath him. To give herself over to a man—to _this_ spectacular man—as she had not done so completely since Nathaniel. To give Jamie all the pleasure he surely desired of her-knowing instinctively that he would place her pleasure above his own. Fannie burned for him in her lonely bed those last few nights, well after he'd left her warmed from his feverish kisses and breath-taking touch—her best comfort those nights the certainty that he burned for her as well, in his fancy Mayfair mansion, miles and miles away from satisfaction.

On the final night of his leave, she _had_ dared inviting him in, reading first his surprise, and then his eagerness, in his astonishingly beautiful eyes. She'd had a long moment of doubt as the gas lamp flickered to life, wondering what he would think of her shabby little room with its threadbare rug and second-hand furnishings. He must already have surmised that much of her glamour was borrowed—clothes and jewelry on loan from _The Apollo's_ costume stock—though he was too much of a gentleman to mention it. But what would Jamie think of her _living_ so poorly? Why she hadn't even a bottle of good whiskey to offer him a drink! Would he want her still, once this sad bit of her truth was finally revealed?

Yet it seemed he made no particular note of the poorness of the place, as she waited by the bed: instead of disapproval, he offered her his sweet, slightly lopsided smile, while he raised her chin to kiss her gently. Fannie remained still, with her eyes closed, and gave a heartfelt sigh. Jamie hummed softly, before rumbling her name, "Ah, my dear, lovely Fan…"

She opened her eyes and beamed him a smile, understanding that their surroundings mattered not a bit to him after all, for he only had eyes for her this night. She stepped into him, sliding her hands beneath his lapels, guilelessly offering her lips to him, beginning to melt when he kissed her slowly, and gladly molding her body to his, all while held tight in the shameless demand of his embrace.

Jamie's kisses were patient and satisfying—and as they deepened, tasted of the hot need building between them. Fannie had dared her fingertips to the nape of his neck, brushing them through his hairline; his body tensed against hers, and he groaned into her mouth. She felt an unexpected power in this, and surprise that she might draw a little recklessness from the man who seemed so perpetually in control. The silken claim of his lips, the insistence of his tongue thrust against hers, and the compelling strength of his hands gripping her shoulders, all made her whimper, heating her blood beyond anything she had ever felt for _any_ would-be lover. Beyond even what she'd felt in her naiveté, once she had finally allowed Nathaniel to seduce her.

Gasping for air, Jamie had released her from his probing kiss, and Fannie had opened her eyes to find him looking at her wide-eyed, as though shocked at his own behavior. "I don't want to hurt you," he husked desperately, "My darling, forgive me…"

"You haven't, dear…my dearest Jamie," she rushed to assure him, brushing her lips upon his, breathing her trust in him against his skin. She scattered soothing kisses on his cheek, promising him, "And I _know_ you never will."

He straightened his shoulders and gently urged her away enough to study her face, giving the barest shake of his head as he took in her simple truth—prompting her to her sweetest smile, and moving her to trace first his brow, and then the perfect line of his cheekbone. Jamie caught her hand in his and turned his face to tenderly kiss her palm.

Fannie kept her gaze focused on his face, content to allow him to decide their course. Releasing her hand, Jamie deftly pulled the combs from her hair, tossing them onto the bed behind her, and loosing its thick, dark waves into his hands. "So soft," he murmured, fingering a generous swath, then moving in to nuzzle it, while deeply inhaling its scent, "I knew it would be…I've wanted to do this from the moment we met…I've _needed_ to, sweet Fan…"

She nodded, clinging to him, trembling with a need surely equal to his own. "I know, darling…I know," she managed, kissing along his jaw and the side of his neck, "It's been the same for me." _You rob me of any shred of modesty,_ she had thought; _you make me want_ everything _I've denied myself for so very long_!

"Ah, Fan," he exclaimed, swiftly echoing her thoughts, "I know I should be a gentleman…I am, I swear I _am_ a gentleman…but you make me so eager to forget myself…and each time I leave you is harder than the last…" Fannie swore she could _feel_ his honor vying with his need to taste and touch and love her.

"You…you could stay a while, you know," she suggested, inspired by the naked plea in his mesmerizing eyes—then turned shy, having spoken aloud what was most on both their minds, "If…if you'd like to, that is…"

He was bold in his scrutiny of her, as though trying to discern how far her offer meant for them to go. The heat of his gaze made her feel like a rare, tropical flower beneath the scorching, midday sun—needing to bask in its life giving light, yet wondering if its intensity would mean her immolation.

He did not speak, but moved to loosen his tie instead, and she reached to help him pull it away from his collar, finally unbuttoning the top two buttons for him. The urge to kiss the base of his throat, to savor his warmth and his scent, was undeniable, and he moaned her name when she gave into it.

Eventually, Jamie tugged her silken shawl away, leaving it to puddle on the floor at her feet, allowing him to warmly nuzzle to her shoulders, and run his fingers on her bare back. Impatient for an equal share of his skin, she plucked at his jacket between kisses, until he chuckled into her mouth, "Let me do it, darling," while pulling back enough to do so. Fannie watched him remove his jacket and fold it carefully before laying it on the battered steamer trunk at the foot of the bed, marveling at his precision, at his calm despite the growing heat in the room. Jamie's back was to her, and the sight of the lay of his braces stilled her breath for several moments, for it accented not only the strong breadth of his shoulders and upper back, but also the very masculine beauty of the gracious curve of his lower back into his trim waist—all of it conspiring to awaken in her a frisson of unexpected lust. There was no other word to describe it, as it roiled through her belly on downwards. And she still barely breathed as he turned her way once more, overwhelmed as she was by his every detail. _No_ man had ever affected her so viscerally, and Fannie realized that tonight she would freely give him whatever he asked of her. Without hesitation.

Standing before her again, Jamie drew her against him with one hand on the small of her back and the other cupped warmly against her neck. "Are you quite sure about this, love?"

Unable to speak it—for fear her voice might quaver like a foolish schoolgirl's—she nodded ardently; to hear him call her so had sent a sharp thrill of longing coursing through her veins. Then he was kissing her again, stealing her breath, tasting her so deeply that Fannie went weak, knowing his embrace was the only thing keeping her legs from giving out. They broke from the kiss, both panting for air, and her knees simply buckled, landing her gracelessly upon the bed.

Jamie gave a quiet, satisfied chuckle, his grin a little victorious, and looking quite pleased with her reaction. Before her widened eyes, he slid the straps of his braces away, leaving them to hang at his sides—an invitation she could not resist. Fannie reached for him and hooked her fingertips into the waistline of his trousers, to pull him nearer, prompting him to thread the fingers of one hand in her hair, willing her even closer. Hands atremble, she began untucking his shirt, tentatively at first, but with growing confidence as she undid his lower buttons, all as her purpose coalesced. To touch his skin, to taste it, to adorn it with soft, slow kisses, became her sole imperative; the sight of his flesh, the lean, firm muscles of his abdomen, even the depth of his navel and the knowing what lay further below making her pant with desire. She spread her hands beneath his ribs, loving his virile warmth and the strong, clean scent of him, gratified by his sharp intake of breath when she finally touched his bare flesh, and thrilled at his throaty moan and at how completely in thrall he appeared to be in her caresses.

"Ohhhhhh, gawwwwwwd," he moaned again, at the first brush of her lips upon him, burying both of his hands in her hair; how quickly their momentum had changed! Now it seemed that with each kiss _she_ was weakening _him_. She tilted her face enough to look up at him, and saw that Jamie had let his head fall back a bit, the lines and angles of his striking face relaxed as she'd never witnessed before, relaxed with the pleasure she bestowed upon him. It made her ache to please him all the more.

Delicately, Fannie traced a single finger along his lowest rib, subtly testing his reaction, and gaging his sensitivity. Jamie held still, but she could feel a growing tension in his muscles, elicited by the power of her simple touch alone. She stretched her neck enough to place soft kisses along the same path, and he moaned her name, jerking his hips against her slightly, perhaps not even meaning to.

With his skin so warm and smooth beneath her tender lips and his hands lost in her hair, Fannie slid one hand up through the dusting of pale hair on his sternum and pressed her palm against his chest. She felt the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing and the strong beat of his heart—but it was the deep vibrations of his drawn-out groan that moved her the most. Mesmerized by the texture of his skin against her mouth, by the flex of his strong fingers in her hair, and by her growing need for _every_ inch of him, she began to rise from the bed, seeking to kiss her way across his chest, while murmuring his name. She whimpered when he seemed to hold her down—but only so he might drop to his knees before her.

Dazed by his strength, his presence, his scent so intimately close, Fannie only managed to open her eyes when he called her his darling. "You've bewitched me, sweet Fan—as no woman ever has," he declared, tenderly taking her face in his hands before brushing his sumptuous lips upon her cheeks, so gently that she moaned without meaning to. _I am the bewitched_ , she had thought, without a hint of regret, while his kisses filled her body with delicious warmth and longing; _I am lost now, lost but unafraid—and there is nothing for me now but to concede myself to his will_ _._

Though he knelt at her feet, Jamie was no penitent, nor a beggar for her favor. Fannie was keenly aware of her vulnerability—that were he not an uncommonly good man, he would take her exactly as he pleased—but she fully believed that her trust in him was not misplaced. Although he was clearly hungry for her, he remained patient; though he was keen, he still strived for restraint—even as he settled her back against her feather pillows and joined her on the bed, aligning his body along hers enough to lean over her. It was the most delicious compliment to her femininity, to feel the fullness of his desire lodged between them, while his deep voice went even lower and quite rough with need; to hear him hail her as his sweet angel, as she succumbed to the insistence of his perfect lips adoring the flesh of her neck, her shoulders, and the swell of her breasts.

When he ran his hands beneath the straps of her bodice, she allowed him to slide them away, shrugging enough to free herself from the satin and tulle. Emboldened, Fannie had sought his mouth to exchange hot, wet kisses with him while he nimbly unhooked her corset. Even the fleeting thought that he seemed to know how to do that all too well, the brief recognition that he must have already known a fair share of women in this way, could not cool how vitally she yearned for him. Instead, Fannie had wondered if he could feel how hard her heart was beating for him through the thin cotton fabric that remained between his practiced, confident hands and her skin—and then he had slid her chemise away as well, pulling back enough so he might look at her.

Jamie's beautiful mouth had gone slack at the revelation of her naked breasts, and moments later his darkened eyes—pupils blown large with lust—had lifted to look into her own, as though for permission to go on. Fully submissive, Fannie had softly closed her eyes, and nestled her head a little deeper into the pillow, moaning with shocking abandon when he cupped both breasts in his large palms, kissing them, nuzzling them, and then finally taking her tightened nipples to suckle upon while she nested her hands in his hair. In that exquisite moment, she knew that she had already fallen in love with him-far too soon to be safe, and ever so far from the wisdom that had held her chaste for so long.

Nearly helpless with the need which Jamie had kindled throughout her body, Fannie had to bite her tongue to silence the wanton, unseemly words that begged to spring forth from her lips. He had settled his hands along her ribs, possessive of her flesh, flicking the tip of his tongue against the hard bud of her nipple drawn deep into his mouth—making her groan with the joy of it. He only left off so he could kiss his way along her lower ribs and then down to her navel, his full lips pampering her skin while he tried to tug her dress further down. Fannie lifted her hips, shamelessly allowing him to slide it completely away, leaving her bare to him but for her flimsy cotton knickers. "…so soft…so flawless," he breathed against her flesh as his lips dusted across the narrow span of her hips, "…more beautiful than I dared imagine…and just utterly…utterly…intoxicating…" Jamie's words, coupled with his tender attentions, drew from her a most sinful moan—which melted into a sudden fit of breathy giggles from the graze of his whiskers upon the sensitive dip of her belly.

Fannie covered her mouth at her outburst, batting her eyes innocently at the imperious look he shot her way. Though he raised a brow and pursed his lips, his eyes flashed with good humor "Well, that's a first," he quipped, "You might have mentioned you were ticklish."

She was surprised to feel a heated blush flood her cheeks, considering the liberties she had already freely granted him. "I…I didn't know I was…ticklish…there, I mean…" Fannie gave a little shrug and raised her chin, defying her embarrassment.

Jamie studied her a moment, humming his appreciation quietly. The amusement in his eyes held true, though his desire for her had clearly not abated. "Whatever am I to do with you, lovely Fan," he marveled, almost to himself, before he drew a deep, deep sigh.

Her mouth had gone dry at the heat in his gaze, and at the first answer that came to her mind. "Anything," she had finally managed, unable to quell the tremor in her voice, "Anything, Jamie…everything…if…if you'll still have me…" Fannie held her arms open to him, aching then—even as she did now in the remembering-with all that she was, to feel his skin against hers and to lose herself in whatever he might want of her.

* * *

Even as a child, Fannie Moore had always had a vibrant imagination. Her mother—a polished, brilliant product of good breeding and the finest boarding schools in New England—recognized that fact early on in Fannie's childhood, and fed it well, knowing that this trait was solely _her_ gift to her only daughter. Susannah Moore had taught her favorite child to read before the age of five, inculcating in her a love of classic literature, and moving her along to Shakespeare, Chaucer, Homer's epic poems, and Malory's _Le_ _Morte d'Arthur_ by Fannie's early adolescence. Many an evening, Silas Moore would return with his sons from their fields of labor, to find his wife and daughter seated at the kitchen table, reading aloud in turns, or discussing some fine story point in a vocabulary that far outstripped his own; he would scowl at times, but offered no complaint, for he understood it was Susannah's greatest joy to share her culture with Fannie—and Susannah's life had held too few joys since she had fled her family, their fortune, and the future they believed they had written in stone for her.

Exposed to these timeless classics, Fannie's imagination learned to take flight—and the seeds of romanticism were deeply planted in this corn farmer's daughter, to flourish through her growing years. Was it any wonder that she eventually chose a career upon the stage, rejecting (as her mother had in her own prime) her father's plans to marry her to a man fifteen years her senior, in order to consolidate their farmsteads? It had seemed to Fannie—then and now—that she had been born and bred to tread the boards.

Yet Fannie needn't employ an actress's vivid imagination when it came to thoughts of her Jamie; she only needed to close her eyes and clear her mind of all distractions, and such dear, delicious memories would fill her that she could nearly taste his kisses again. Nearly feel the way he had touched her, nearly hear him calling her his. Oh, those few but precious interludes, when he had more than called her his—when he had claimed both her heart and her body for his own! Lost in such longing for him now, she closed her eyes against the hints of dawn's new light filtering through the curtains on the single window of her flat, seeking some share of the sweetness which Jamie had lavished upon her that June night.

She smiled to recall how he had met her silly burst of laughter with easy humor, and then breathed a long, satisfied sigh to remember what had followed. Jamie had moved into her beckoning arms, kissing her tenderly before skimming his lips across her cheek and breathing his warmth against her ear with whispered endearments. Fannie smoothed her hands over his chest and beneath his shirt to stroke his back, arching up against him, answering her need to feel his flesh against her naked skin. He gasped at the sensation, his kisses growing hungrier upon her neck and shoulders, his touch becoming a little fierce, caressing her thoroughly, palming her breasts and using the flat of his hand to tease her stiffened nipples. Fannie's mouth had fallen open as she breathed in time with his caresses, moaning gorgeously, "Darling…my darling…ahhhhhhhh, Jamie…"

He hummed wickedly, lowering his mouth to her collarbone while tracing his free hand across her skin, forging a gentle path along her ribs, then gliding his fingertips in slow, narrowing circles around her navel. Fannie shifted under his touch, subtly raising her hips and seeking to close the gap between their bodies. "Patience…patience, darling," he urged her, "I know what you want, sweet Fan…and I promise we'll get there soon enough…" Powerless to defy whatever course he had planned for them, she purred in soft concession.

Lost in the bliss of his slow, lingering touch, time had ceased to exist for her. Finally, Jamie slipped his elegant, cunning fingers beneath the waistband of her knickers, teasing their tips into the curls that covered her sex, making her moan in the deep of her throat. Fannie knew she was begging, but she hadn't the will to stop herself. "Ohhhhh, Jamie…oh, touch me please…mmmmm…please, I need to belong to you…ahhhhh… _make_ me belong to…youuuuuuuu…"

She gasped of a sudden, raising her pelvis to seek dearer contact, when he rewarded her pleas by spreading his fingers across her mound and then cupping them between her legs and pressing lightly upon her point of greatest sensitivity. "You _are_ mine, sweet Fannie…as I've wanted you from the moment our eyes met that first night, when you sang to me from the stage…" His confession, growled against the tender hollow of her throat, sent her heart soaring. "I'd have you forever mine, darling…your body, all mine…your heart… _all_ mine…"

"Yes…oh yes," she affirmed, encouraged enough by his declaration to dare her hands lower; to grip his hip with one, and lay the other on the cloth concealing his erection. "And you're mine then, Jamie," she implored him, "Truly mine?"

He grunted, struggling to maintain some semblance of control despite her heady willingness; with his face buried against her neck, he promised, "Yes, my sweet… _however_ you'll have me…for however long you'll _want_ me…"

"Now…let it be now…" she panted, moving her hand to his fly, so very eager to begin that she hadn't even paused to marvel at the novelty of its zipper closure, "Jamie…let it be now… _please_. Fill me now…show me I _am_ yours…" Fannie slipped her fingers inside the slit in his drawers, running them boldly through his coarse hair, then smoothing her fingertips against the hard base of his erection, before finally grasping him full in her warm, soft hand.

Jamie loosed a desperate, strangled sound from deep in his chest, throbbing in her hand, and pressed his own palm harder against her most secret flesh. Fannie gasped in surprise, though she swiftly angled her hips to allow him even more intimate access, while stroking his length with her palm. All the care she had taken in all her time in London—rarely taking a lover, while ever withholding her heart-had come to naught; the idea that he could be her ruin never crossing her mind, her need to be completely his overriding all other considerations. Fearless she became, trusting Jamie entirely, as equally desirous of his pleasure as her own.

His kisses became a bit rough, roving across her chest, as he dared grazing her skin with his teeth; grazing her breasts, then lapping his tongue upon her areola before sucking it hard into his mouth. The decadent sensation sent heat like flame coursing through her belly, which met and merged with the heat stirred in her deepest places as he cleverly fingered her clitoris. No penetration had ever brought her to such a depth of arousal; no lover had ever played her body with such hungry passion. Fannie gripped his cock harder, rubbing her fingertips along it's stiff ridges, and Jamie cursed incoherently as his mouth fell away from her breast, his focus turned solely to the rapture of her touch.

"Christ, Fan," he growled, rising up to let his face linger over hers, "The sins we might commit together!" She nodded her readiness, hypnotized by his hunger, equally hungry for his mouth to stop her breath, and to feel the fullness of his weight upon her as they coupled at last.

Fannie clung to him tightly, her free arm anchored around his neck, wishing he would tear away her knickers at once and just fill her. Fill her to the brim and spend himself deep inside her. His mouth grew even rougher upon her, and it was heavenly to feel him lose control—nor would she rue the bruises that colored her skin from his fierce kisses, come the day's light.

But his breath grew suddenly ragged against her skin, and his body shuddered with unresolved tension-so that she urged him on. "My darling, yes…please…take me…touch me…love me," Fannie stuttered, shocked by her own brazenness, but certain that her heart was now _meant_ to beat at _his_ bidding alone. Yet her plea—meant to assure him of her pure and resolute desire-only seemed to increase his distress.

Jamie grunted amid his most frantic kisses, then leaned his forehead against hers, drawing a gasp through teeth clenched with the strain of fighting the urge to thrust against her hand. He breathed hard and hotly-though to Fannie his breath was ever sweet—and muttered disjointedly, "…no…we shouldn't…this isn't right…"

Stunned at his sudden rebuff, Fannie blinked back tears, "Jamie…please, my darling…I promise it couldn't be more right… _we_ couldn't be more right, than we are, right now…"

His body shook hard against hers, wracked in the battle of desire versus honor, and all too soon Fannie could feel his tension lessen as he made his choice. Jamie kissed her forehead, his breathing less tortured, striving in manner and voice to be solicitous and patient, "My sweetest temptation…my darling Fan…we shouldn't…I can't…I won't do this to you…" He withdrew his hand from her knickers and laid it on her wrist, seeking to guide her hand away from its own intimate quest. "You're beautiful, Fannie; a perfect, lovely dream, and any man would consider himself blest to gain your favor…and your trust…"

Tears betrayed her, slipping unbidden along the soft curve of her cheeks. "I…I don't understand, Jamie. Don't you…don't you want me?"

Fannie would never forget the tenderness and quiet disappointment of his small smile, "I do, love—to the depth of my immortal soul. I do." He kissed her salty tears away, "But I must do far better by you, Fan. You deserve so much better than for me to taste of you this way…and take you. Take you in the heat of the moment-only to leave you behind, before…oh Christ…before our sheets have even cooled."

Her blood felt no less cooled from the heat he had raised it to, though she had begun to see that this was a vital truth to him. _Her beloved, beautiful Jamie_. A good and honorable man—just the sort it seemed she'd been waiting her whole life for. Fannie sniffled, accepting his choice, rolling her head to the side in resignation.

Jamie nuzzled her cheek, and let his lips linger near her ear, offering a jest, a quiet bit of comfort for her to take away, "I'm already regretting this, love—you know that, don't you?"

"I suppose," she sighed, wanting to hang upon his every word.

"And surely you understand that…ah…god damn me…I'd make myself derelict in my duty if I tasted of you fully this night…for I just wouldn't be able to leave you—as I _must_ —in the morning." Jamie moved to her side, to lay his face a whisper away from hers. "Dearest Fan, I'd _need_ to lose myself in your bounty again…and again…in the days and nights to come…and so how could I _bear_ to be _leagues_ away from you by nightfall tomorrow? You _must_ be merciful, love—don't you agree?"

Crestfallen and weak with wanting him still, she laid her palm—still hot from caressing him so intimately—against his cheek, while whetting her lips before kissing him in acceptance. The passion he had brought her to would slowly bank—it must, for how could she endure his departure otherwise—but Fannie knew it might never fully abate. Insouciant, more for his sake than her own, she set her conditions, "I'll grant you a stay of mercy alright, Jamie Stewart—but only if _you_ stay and hold me in your arms this night." His eyes flickered with hesitation, until she added, softly persuasive, "Give me that memory, at least, to cling to, if you cannot allow yourself to love me properly." Fannie finished with a quiet pout, hoping she had won her case.

Her Jamie laughed heartily, wrapping his arms around her, his naked flesh sparking hers with that same heat, threatening to topple her reason and make her beg him for all that he had put behind them. Oh, how wicked his laugh had been, his eyes gleaming with sudden mischief. "Oh, I think I can manage an even more delicious memory for you love—but only if you are willing."

* * *

Thus, it was that Jamie _had_ loved her most unselfishly that night, giving Fannie sheer pleasure, and taking nothing for himself but the sweetness of her satisfaction—and the surety that she belonged to him however he might choose to have her. She had realized during their earlier play that she was in love with him; by the time he left her flat that morning, she had been hard pressed not to declare it aloud, fearing it might sully his future intentions towards her.

"Hands by your sides, darling," he had commanded her, once she had given him her consent, his voice so rich, deep, and potent that she couldn't even consider defying him. He had insisted that she leave her knickers on, determined not to face the temptation of her fully naked, all too willing flesh. Jamie had laid his lips against her ear, making his will crystal clear, "I want to hear you moan my name, sweet Fan.

I'm going to touch you and feel you open to me, darling. I'm going to make you slick with desire…make you throb for release…" He had circled the tip of his strong middle finger on her engorged nub, making her moan hard and whimper for more. "Yes," he breathed hotly against her ear, " _Just_ like that, Fan." He had tugged her earlobe between his teeth, and she hissed in surprise before nodding her compliance. He began to stroke her thoroughly, exploring her moist folds, touching her, teasing her, building her towards a glorious consummation.

"Good god, you're breathtaking, Fannie," he had husked against her throat, his once gentle kisses roughening as he moved across her skin, leaving the telltale bruises of love bites where he neck sloped into her shoulder, "And you are mine now, aren't you, darling?"

"Yes…yes…oh yes, Jamie," she had exclaimed, writhing beneath his touch, seeking fulfillment, "…all of me…yes!" Confident of his skill, he had eventually slipped a finger inside her wet heat, heightening her pleasure with his unexpected, appreciative moans, then sliding a second finger in place, while leaving his thumb on her sweet spot, to work her to the most intense orgasm of her life.

Afterwards, Fannie had fallen asleep wrapped snuggly in his arms, but had awakened before dawn to find her lover had stripped down to just his drawers, for the room was summer hot. She had arisen to crack the window for some cooler air, slipping out of her knickers and into a simple cotton chemise, and rejoined him on the bed, cautious not to wake him. He'd looked so perfect and so peaceful, and though she longed to touch him (in fact, to stir him back to life, in the hope that he would have his way with her at last), she contented herself to keep watch; to study the astounding details of his face, to memorize his details-even the small scar at the corner of his mouth, curious as to its origin. To watch the gentle flutter of his eyes as he dreamt, to envy his long, thick lashes, and to compose a sonnet to the splendor of his lips, recalling most especially how he had so generously spoiled her with them. She had drifted off to sleep—against her will—with one hand pressed to his chest, and her own chest filled with the fresh bloom of love.

When she next awoke, Jamie had been seated at the edge of the bed, putting on his boots. Fannie had sat up, her lips trembling against her disappointment as she asked him the obvious, "Would you really have left without waking me?"

Jamie smiled at her indulgently, and reached to stroke her cheek, weaving his fingertips into her hair. "No, love, I swear I wouldn't. I planned to wake you once I was ready to go."

"Can't you stay a little longer," she had offered hopefully, "I could fix you some breakfast." She didn't have much to offer but would gladly give him all that she had.

He had clasped her hand to kiss it, then held it against his chest, "I wish with all my heart that I could, darling—but I have to go home briefly to collect my things, before I catch my train." He stood, willing to pull her along with him to the door. "Besides, I want to remember you as you are right now—soft with sleep, fresh-faced, your lovely hair tousled from our…," he swallowed hard, his eyes flashing with that banked hunger once again, "…our adventures last night."

Fannie lowered her eyes, unwilling for him to read her honest desperation to keep him ever close. He chucked her beneath the chin gently, "Come kiss me, sweet Fan…it may be many weeks until I'll taste your sweetness again."

She brightened at that indication, relieved that he intended to remain her beaux. "Did you think that I could leave you for good," he had asked, smiling confidently, for he knew he already owned her heart, "Silly, lovely girl. Don't you know that you're _my_ woman now?"

She threw her arms around his neck to kiss him soundly, mussing his hair and pressing herself against him to remind him of all that lay in their future. "Of course, I know," she had murmured in his ear, kissing it in punctuation, "I just wanted to be sure that _you_ knew."

Jamie laughed again, hints of the evening's wickedness clear to her aching heart, prompting her to promise him, "I'll write you, my darling—as often as I can…"

"And dream of me each night?" he grinned.

"I swear we'll dance in my dreams, dear Jamie…every night, until you hold me again…"

"So be it," he had grinned enough to make his chin melt into multiples, and then kissed her brow and the tip of her nose, before leaving her with a last lingering kiss upon her mouth.

That had been months and months ago; high summer had turned to fading fall, and her precious Jamie was far, far away now; a world away it seemed to her, in the fields of France. True to her word she had written him, a few times a week to begin with, and then with increasing frequency after his all too brief leave in August, just before his battalion departed for France. He had warned her from the start he would have little time to write back, but Fannie would not be deterred. She kept the flame alive between them as best she could, writing of the mundane when she had no special news to report; telling him of daily life in the theatre, revealing bits and pieces of her past enough to tantalize but never quite satisfy his curiousity. That she would prefer to do in person, and to entrust him with her most closely held secrets when the time was right. At first she only hinted at the passion she felt for him, without being too blatant-but after their time in August, she had held nothing back, pouring her love for him into every sentence she penned.

Though he rarely returned her letters, the ones she received were as eloquent as his first; and though he did not express his feelings with the fervor she lavished upon him, as the weeks passed, Fannie came to believe she held his heart firmly in her keeping.

Fully awake now, and knowing she could not return to sleep-and such sweet dreams of her beloved Jamie-Fannie resolved to write to him at once. To remind him she was waiting, to remind him how utterly in love with him she was-and to remind him that as promised, she still dreamed them dancing, while looking ever forward to the day when he would take her in his arms and lead her onto the floor and dance the first of many waltzes that would populate the life that they would share, come war's end and Love's true beginning.


End file.
